


Heal

by insideimfeelindirty



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Pregnancy, Stillbirth, if you need your heart do not read, really a lot of angst i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 14:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6859387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insideimfeelindirty/pseuds/insideimfeelindirty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best day of Bellamy Blake's life, the worst and the one that started out like any other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heal

**Author's Note:**

> I asked [wetbellamyblake](http://wetbellamyblake.tumblr.com/) for some angsty inspiration and boy did she deliver. My heart hurts. I apologise in advance if I break yours.

 

 

The best day of his life starts with a pounding headache, stale breath and Miller’s panicked voice announcing that they are two hours late and Clarke is going to have his balls on a platter if he doesn’t deliver him on time. A speedy and ice cold shower, several cups of coffee and a barrage of profanity later, Miller’s balls seem to be safe for another day, but his heart is in his throat and his hair is probably on the unacceptable side of messy. By the time the doors open Octavia has pulled and yanked at his head so much that he forgets to be nervous, but as soon as Clarke walks into the room on her mother’s arm nothing else matters. She makes her way towards him and he sees nothing but her golden hair like a halo around her head, hears nothing but the rustle of her white dress, feels nothing but the warmth of her smile deep in his bones. He promises to be her husband, which is a technicality, to be her best friend, which is a certainty, and to always love her, which is an inevitability. When she finally kisses him he suddenly hears the room around him come to life with loud cheers and applause, but still all he can see is blue blurred by tears and a soft _together_ fall from her pink, swollen lips. 

 

The best day of his life ends with her feet dirty, her hair messy and her eyes sparkling, and his heart thumping heavily against his ribs.

 

 

* * *

 

The worst day of his life starts with a warm body snuggled against his chest and a big smile on his face. She is delirious with sleep, pressing up against him, trying to get as close as her belly will allow her. His hands roam over her skin, over the round swell of her bump, over the final piece in their puzzle. First it was a pea, then it was an avocado, then a melon. Now it’s a giant watermelon, which in about two days time is scheduled to complete their happiness. She whines loudly when he pushes away from her and he has to remind her with soft kisses all over her lips and cheeks that they need to get going. Pregnant Clarke has to be treated with the utmost care and sensitivity, the unpredictable hormones raging inside her making her act like the Princess he always knew she was. Slowly, and completely without grace she finally gets going and he smiles to himself as she mutters shocking insults at him without even bothering to try and modify herself. He watches her waddle towards the bathroom, gloriously swollen and no doubt utterly uncomfortable, but there is nothing about the sight of _his_ wife carrying _his_ child that doesn’t fill every part of him with pure, undiluted happiness. 

 

They head to the hospital for their final scan, her hand clutching his in the car all the way there. They’re used to this game, somewhat, since the ultra sound technician found something that made her brow crease and the second opinion she brought in lean forward and squint at the screen. Abnormal scull circumference, the doctors mumbled, and Clarke grabbed his arm so hard he had bruises for a week. The next time everything was normal. The time after that the brows were creased again and he had new bruises on his arm. Last time everything was normal again, and they took a collective breath as they left the hospital. _No matter what, this child will be so loved_ , Clarke promised and they agreed to leave it at that and wait patiently for whatever life had in store for the three of them. Still, today her lip is worried in under her teeth and her eyes are wet and focused away from him. 

 

He strokes her hair as they wait for their doctor and she strokes her belly, absentmindedly. 

 

“Do you think we should find out if it’s a boy or a girl?” Her voice is small and full of feeling, because they never asked before, when emotions were high and priorities different. 

 

“Maybe we should just wait to be pleasantly surprised either way,” he suggests, because it couldn’t matter less to him which constellation of chromosomes this baby has. 

 

She nods carefully, twisting around to meet his eyes, a steely resolve forming behind the blue. 

 

“No matter what, we’re in this together.” 

 

“ _Together_ ,” he agrees, just as the ultrasound technician enters the exam room.

 

“Just two days to go, huh? You must be so excited!” The technician gushes as if this is a routine check up and he can’t tell if Clarke finds it soothing or extremely annoying as she mumbles out a non-committal answer. 

 

His fingers are tangled in her hair and his thumb is running slow circles over her hand as the exam starts. His hand drops to her shoulder and his thumb stops as the technician taps into the keyboard with a blank expression before she excuses herself and leaves the room without further explanation. The next ten minutes are excruciatingly slow as they wait in silence, not knowing what to expect. Clarke examines her cuticles in detail, keeping her eyes away from the screen and from him. He paces around the room, running a hand through wild curls while his heart pounds loudly in his chest. _No matter what_ , he repeats in his head like a mantra, like a prayer.

 

Finally the technician is back, another, older doctor with her. They hunch over the screen, the probe gliding over Clarke’s belly and no one makes a sound. He swallows hard and it’s the loudest thing in the room. Clarke’s hand finds his, squeezing hard.

 

“Yep, that’s it,” the older doctor confirms, mostly to the other technician, not to them. “There is no heartbeat.” 

 

The room spins around him as he tries to process the words, as he tries to grapple with what has just happened. Blood rushes to his head and he feels his knees buckle, but the hand grasping his desperately brings him back to the room. He doesn’t register what happens around him as he leans down and catches her just as she falls. Her breath is short and panicked, and her hands are grasping at anything she can hold on to - shoulders, shirt, hair. They cling to each other as the room empties and hushed conversations happen somewhere outside, silently trying to find comprehension and consolation, neither of which will come to them. 

 

  
_No, no, no._  Her voice is so broken, so destroyed, and he feels like she sounds. He desperately tries to find words to soothe but none will come. He can’t tell her everything will be ok, because nothing ever will. He can’t tell her that they’ll get though this, because he can’t say for sure that they will. He can’t tell her that _no matter what,_ they will love, conquer and survive, because this never even entered his head as a possibility. 

 

“Together.”

 

His voice is firmer than he expected, but his cheeks are wet against hers. This is the only thing he can give her, and the only consolation he can find. 

 

“I need a cesarian, Bell,” she grits out through her teeth, hard determination in her jaw as she pulls back from his embrace to look him in the eye. “Promise me."

 

He gives her a nod because he doesn’t trust his composure to promise her that she can have the least traumatic method of removing their dead child from her womb out loud. His eyes fall to the swell of her stomach, to what always held so much promise for them both, which now feels like an unfathomable loss, not just for here and now, but for their entire future, a loss they’ll keep on experiencing for every milestone they’ll never have. His tears flow freely from his eyes as she catches his glance, and her hands automatically fly to her stomach. She pauses as her hands on this familiar place suddenly hold a very different meaning, and his heart groans with the weight as her hands still and then drop to her sides.

 

He has no idea how much time passes before the doctor reappears, but somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks it’s too long and he eyes the older man with barely concealed hostility. He begins to tell them he’s sorry for the miscommunication and that he was under the impression he’d just been brought in to confirm what they had already been told. He can feel Clarke’s impatience growing beside him, her hand finding his in an insistent grip.

 

“We want a cesarian.” They want it over with. They want closure. 

 

“Well, Mr Blake, I’m afraid Mrs Blake…"

 

“We want a cesarian,” he repeats, voice low and gravelly. 

 

“Cesarian.” Clarke’s voice is clear now, hoarse but hard, but he doesn’t miss the wobble at the end. He squeezes her hand in support and hardens his eyes against the doctor. 

 

“Mrs Blake, I’m sorry but we don’t recommend surgery when we can avoid it, natural birth is a much better option for you physically."

 

He makes it clear that its not up for debate and as Clarke deflates next to him he clenches his fist until his nails dig into his palm and he can taste blood on his lips. The doctor repeats his message, tells them what is going to happen, tells them again when they look at him blankly. 

 

A soft, but gut wrenching wail leaves Clarke's lips, halting the conversation and echoing in his ears. 

 

“I can’t do this, Bell, I can’t do it. _I_ _can’t_ _._ ” Her words fall like shards of ice against his ears as he scoops her up in his arms again, rocking her slowly to soothe the rising hysteria in her voice. 

 

“I’m here, baby, I’m here.” 

 

His words seem futile as she breaks to pieces in his arms, pained, raw sobs coming from deep inside her chest, low and excruciating wails leaving her throat as she tries to breathe. 

 

The doctor must have realised his shortcomings in this situation as a familiar and far more welcome face enters the exam room - Maya, their midwife. She immediately rushes to their side, grabbing Clarke’s hands in hers and shushing her gently. He keeps his arms around her as if they would both shatter if he didn’t, as if life itself would tear them apart unless he physically holds the pieces together. 

 

“ _I can’t_ _do this._ "

 

“Shhh, of course you can Clarke, _you can_.” Maya’s voice is soft and sympathetic, but her eyes are determined.

 

“Just cut the baby out of me, I don’t want to feel it happen."

 

He winces under her words, breathes through the thick lump that has formed in his throat, tries to minimise his own grief so as to not burden her any further. It doesn’t seem real, none of it does, and deep down he still holds out the tiniest hope that it isn’t. There must be a mistake, because of all the things he thought they might be discussing today, how to terminate this pregnancy never even entered his imagination. 

 

“I know this wasn’t what was supposed to happen, and you shouldn’t have to go through this. But its happening.” Clarke sways gently in his arms as Maya’s words sink in, the reality of the situation taking hold and calming her erratic breathing. "This baby needs to come out, and it’s happening right now. You’ll heal quicker this way."

 

He scoffs at that, at the notion of healing itself. When the worst imaginable happens, how do you go forward? How do you even begin to heal? He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t know that healing is even a possibility for them in the future. Not when his wife is in pieces in his arms, not when he knows he can’t be the glue to put her back together. 

 

_“I can’t."_

“Clarke, listen to me, you can. You have to. Do your child the honour of bringing him or her into this world like nature intended, and let them leave with that gift from their mother." 

 

He can feel her straighten in his arms, hears her breathing calm to a soft stutter, sees a shift in her eyes, fear making way for determination, panic yielding to resolve. She turns to him, eyes swollen, nose red and lips trembling and he tightens his arms around her. 

 

“Ok.” She holds his gaze,something dark passing over her as the pleading that has been written in her face turns to resignation. 

 

“Ok?” Her hands leave Mayas and find his, squeezing softly, confirming her decision. He nods once to Maya before Clarke crumples back into his arms. 

 

After that time passes in a strange way, blurred and hurried at times, slow and with total clarity at others. Drugs are administered, papers are shoved in front of them to sign. His hand trembles as he puts the pen down on the table, having just signed a death certificate for his own child, and he sees the same wild incredulity in her eyes. He texts his sister, explains everything and tells her to inform their friends, but also warns her that they need to do this alone before he turns his phone off. They are shuffled down the hall to a private suite, and Clarke is put in a hospital gown, before they are left alone, Maya explaining that it will take hours for the drugs to work. 

 

“I don’t want to see the baby,” Clarke tells her quietly, eyes wandering to the parking lot outside their window, where life carries on as normal, with complete disregard for how their lives have come to a complete stop. 

 

The worst day of his life turns into night and then morning, but they don’t sleep. They stare at the magnolia walls in numb silence, they cry quietly when eyes or hands accidentally brush over the still swollen belly occupying the space between them, she screams when a contraction hits her hard and wails softly as she comes back down. His arms are full of bruises and nail marks but he feels nothing but the pain from her cries and the agony of her moans. 

 

She gives up several times, telling him over and over that she can’t, she won’t and that he shouldn’t make her. He tells her over and over how he would swap places with her in a second if he could, how he would endure excruciating pain for the rest of his life if he could take away a fraction of hers just for this day. Her body takes over and carries her the rest of the way, forcing her onwards towards the inevitable. She is finally told to push and she cries wordlessly through the next thirty minutes, keeping her eyes firmly closed. 

 

“You’re doing so, so good, baby,” he mutters against her ear all the way through, letting her grasp and release him as the pain ripples through her worn out body. 

 

When it’s over there is no cry, there is no rushed activity, no excited whoops announcing a new life. There is Clarke’s breathless whimpers, metal instruments clanking against metal and then a peaceful calm. The obstetrician wraps the bundle in surgical cloth and holds it up towards them, expectantly. Mayas eyes widen behind the doctor, but suddenly his arms reach out on instinct, accepting his child into his arms.

 

“You have a beautiful baby girl,” the doctor says, and a loud sob echoes from behind him.

 

She is perfect, wild black hair and plump lips, chubby cheeks and flat nose like any healthy baby. She is warm still, but limp, eyes shut as if she is merely asleep. But she is his, theirs, and he knows with fierce certainty, that _no matter what_ , she is so, so loved.

 

“Give her to me,” Clarke croaks, eyes wet but locked on their daughter, arms stretched out.

 

He hands her over carefully, watching with reverence as she clings to their baby, as fat tears roll down her cheeks while she strokes gently over black hair and soft skin. She whispers words of love and want and regret into unhearing ears, presses kisses against unfeeling skin. He doesn’t know how much time passes, but before he takes her out of Clarke’s arms and hands her over to Maya, he presses a final soft kiss to his daughters forehead and her skin is cool and her lips are blue. 

 

The worst day of his life finally ends with him pushing her out of the hospital in the requisite wheel chair, her hands clutching her deflated stomach, his hand resting heavily on her shoulder and an empty car seat waiting for them in their car.

 

 

* * *

 

It’s just another normal day at work when it happens. Murphy is giving him endless grief over the new ordering system, and he has to put money into the “shut up, Murphy” jar four times before he’s even had his lunch break. He is just barely back from his break when his phone vibrates angrily, the screen flashing “911”.

 

“No, no, no,” he shouts at no one in particular, spinning around himself. 

 

“Clarke!” he barks into the speaker, turning heads and alarming customers. “Why are you calling me on this number?"

 

“You have to come _now_ ,” she breathes into his ear, panicked.

 

“It’s too early!"

 

“ _Now_ , Blake,” Ravens voice interrupts, before the line goes dead. 

 

He stares wildly at the phone in his hand, frozen on the spot for a moment before a heavy hand slaps him on the back. 

 

“Let’s go, man,” Miller smiles, pushing him towards the door. He tries to protest, mostly out of shock but also because he’s truly not ready. “Murphy can cover the bar, my balls are on the line here."

 

He’s pretty sure Miller breaks every traffic rule on the way, speeding and running lights like a man possessed, dodging the mid-afternoon traffic. They finally make it, running down the corridors and narrowly avoiding crashing into an oncoming gurney. He practically bursts into the delivery room, breathless and sweating. Raven shouts at him for about ten seconds, but he can’t even make out her words, because all he can see is his wife breathing hard, forehead creased in pain and chin bearing down on her chest in deep concentration. 

 

“Ok, you can start pushing now,” the obstetrician encourages, and his head spins, because once again he is in a delivery room unexpectedly, unprepared and at a loss for how to help. 

 

Clarke finds his hands, gripping his so hard he’s pretty sure she’ll end up breaking some bones today. He barely registers, just watches her closely as she rides out her contraction, pushing down. When she comes down she leans over and pulls him down into a tight hug, clinging to his neck with a ferocity that frightens him a little. 

 

“Hey, you’re ok, Princess,” he whispers into her hair, burying his face in her neck. “We can do this."

 

“It’s too soon,” she sobs, and he’s not sure if she means too soon after or too soon before. It’s probably both, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it as another contraction hits her.

 

“No matter what, ok?” he mutters into her ear as she starts pushing through again, rubbing her back gently. “No matter what."

 

After a rushed start, it goes on for hours and he starts to believe her when she says she can’t do it anymore. His arms are bruise upon bruise and her hair is wet against her neck and forehead, and the doctors start mentioning a cesarian. Clarke’s ears prick up and she lets out a strangled _no_ , before rallying all her strength into one last ditch effort at doing this on her own. 

 

A deafening silence follows as there is frantic activity somewhere below Clarke’s legs, and they both catch each other’s eyes for a moment, panic, grief and devastation hanging between them. A piercing cry finally breaks the silence and the smile that spreads across Clarke’s face is the most pure expression of love and happiness he’s ever seen. 

 

“You have a beautiful, healthy baby girl,” the obstetrician announces, and he never knew one little word could make such a difference.

 

He opens his arms and accepts his youngest daughter, and she is just as perfect. Black, wild curls, pink, plump lips and a toothless mouth opening in a wide scream. Her eyes are closed but her muscles tense and move in her tiny body, and her minuscule fists flail around her face. 

 

“Give her to me,” Clarke pleads, arms waiting and eyes sparkling, her golden hair a frazzled halo around her head. 

 

Their daughter screams breathlessly and angrily, but as soon as she is placed at her mother’s chest she quietens, soothed by the heartbeat that has been her companion all these weeks. Her mother tells her words of love, want and waiting, and tells her she has a sister that will always be a part of their family. They make room for her in their hearts, stretching around the hole that has been there for the last few years, fitting perfectly into and around the love they already have for each other. 

 

“Together,” Clarke whispers, her eyes falling to their drowsy daughter and back up to him, clear and full. 

 

“Together,” he agrees, pressing soft kisses on both foreheads, saving one.

 

It’s just another normal day, but for the first time in a long, long time he feels like he’ll be able to go through them with happiness in his heart. 

 

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> original prompt from [wetbellamyblake](http://wetbellamyblake.tumblr.com/):
> 
> Bellamy and Clarke are finally together and happily married. The only thing left to the perfect life is a child but it's on its way. On one of the examination the doctor realizes that there's no heartbeat of the child and so Clarke has to give birth to a dead child. It could end with a happy ending and them finally having a kid after some troubled years (2 or 3???) and the word "together" :)


End file.
